He’d teased her relentlessly, knowing that she couldn’t react properly, couldn’t do anything but squirm and rearrange her skirt. The remote between her legs, the low vibrations punctuated by staccato bursts as he fiddled with the dial, made things especially difficult. Every time she talked to the waiter, her voice broke, punctuated by quick gasps and elongated vowels.
Halfway through, he’d instructed her to go to the bathroom and remove her underwear. All of it. Coming back from that had been difficult, not to mention more than a little stimulating.
The biggest surprise of all, though, was him pecking her cheek after the cheque was paid, and walking straight out the front door. Hadn’t he paid for a hotel room? Wasn’t he going to solve her increasingly pertinent problem?
Getting back to her room, it didn’t take long to have the climax she’d been waiting for, hollow as it was.
The keys dangling from the collar are a classic touch of poetry, taunting and goading her with the promise of freedom, while remaining far out of reach, rubbing salt into her wounds, reminding her of her helplessness.
Mitts: confining, frustrating, infuriating. Even worse is having to wear them indefinitely, with your limbs free to move yet utterly helpless in the face of the simplest tasks. The suit is a prison that clings to your skin, suffocating and inescapable, wearing you down with its constant discomfort, with the frustration of enforced silence, with all the little things that slowly get to you, and soon there’s not a moment that you don’t spend pawing at the latches and locks, begging mutely for release. To which, of course, they throw you the keys, leaving you to paw at them in silent fury, freedom so teasingly close, yet just beyond reach.
